


brother let me be

by dollylux



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Battlefield, Berserker Thor (Marvel), Blood and Violence, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Loki (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Thor (Marvel), frigga knows what's up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: Young and reckless and in the throes of an epic battle, Thor's world falls silent.





	brother let me be

**Author's Note:**

> a drabble from tumblr gone awry; prompt: thorki + wounded soldier trope
> 
> title from needtobreathe

Losing isn’t an Asgardian trait, and certainly not one Thor inherited from either of his parents.

Truth be told, the battle hadn’t even really been lost, as it was certainly still continuing, and Asgard was gaining the upper hand more with each passing second. It was only that Thor had stumbled, had hesitated, and the biggest rock troll Thor had ever seen brought down a hammer the size of Thor’s entire body in a mighty swing. Thor had raised his arms to take the brunt of the hit, but it knocked him prone with a deafening explosion of stone that masked the sound of breaking bones.

Everything had gone blessedly silent, and dark.

He wakes on Nornheim some time later, the battle still raging on around him. The rock troll lies dead and in countless pieces near his feet, and he finds that he cannot easily move where he’s propped up against a sharp stone jutting out of the ground near the mouth of Nornkeep cave, and it takes considerable effort to get to his feet again, the world spinning feverishly as he does.

Mjolnir feels strangely heavy in his grip, and it’s when he tries to lift his arm that he realizes the length of it, from shoulder to wrist, is badly broken. Bone exits skin in sharp points along the way, and the odd, hunched curve of his shoulder is a clear indication that it’s been forced out of its socket.

He passes the hammer to his left hand with care, his teeth grinding together just as the devastating grit of bone shards do in his mangled arm.

He sighs.

“Perfect,” he mutters.

He tracks his fellow warriors with weary eyes, ignoring the blood and sweat that drip down his face and mingle in the filthy fall of his hair. Sif is launching herself from the top of a hill of rocks and right down into the melee, her borrowed axe striking sure and true. Fandral and Hogun are back to back, their shoulders nearly touching, and they move with such fluidity, with such synchronized grace that it seems a dance and manages to hypnotize Thor for a moment.

Volstagg’s laugh echoes in the sprawl of the clearing, adding strange levity to an otherwise bleak, bloody moment. Thor leans back against his protective rock with a breathless huff, cradling his ruined arm to his chest, and tries to plan his next movement. Loki is nowhere to be seen, but Thor can sense his presence, can see the faint shimmering green of his seiðr at work in the distance. He closes his eyes.

“Thor!”

He’s immediately alert again, Mjolnir thrumming in his hand, a tiger in wait. Fandral approaches with Hogun protecting his exposed back, both of them battle-glowing and exhausted. Thor attempts to hide his arm, to keep any pain off his face, but Fandral’s grave expression commands all of his attention.

“What is it? How many men are we down? Is it nearly won?”

“Y-Yes, Thor,” Fandral starts, glancing back behind him as Hogun shield comes into stunningly powerful contact with a rock troll’s giant fist. They all three flinch as broken stone flies like shrapnel. “The battle is going well. Worry not about its fate. It’s not that--”

“For fuck’s sake, Thor,” Sif exclaims from overhead where she’s descending Thor’s temporary shelter and landing at his side with a heavy clunk. “Is there a part of your arm that is not broken?”

“Stop spending so much time on Midgard,” Thor replies with a groan as she takes hold of his arm and extends it out to survey the damage. “Your mouth has become a scandal.”

“Hold still.” She’s focused and impatient, putting her axe away and unwrapping a cloth from around her waist that seemed to be a part of her tunic only moments ago. “Fandral, don’t let him move.”

“How the bloody hell am I supposed to--”

“What exactly are you--”

Thor interrupts himself to shout, a sound that echoes around them and momentarily quietens the cacophony around them. Sif has shoved the bone back under his skin at the wrist and aligned it with its severed counterpart as closely as possible, undeterred by Thor’s pained cries and the way he easily shoves Fandral away.

“Oh, shush, you big baby,” she chides under her breath, and the sheer audacity of it makes Thor laugh, a wheezing, breathless thing, and he’s so distracted by it that he’s completely unprepared for the ruthless shove of the next bit of broken bone up his arm, followed by another separation at the elbow, and finally her hands close around his dislocated shoulder.

Her face is drawn and dreadful.

“Don’t fight me,” she says. With an efficient, brutal crack, she forces his shoulder back into place, the relief of it immediate and shocking. He nearly collapses under the torrent of pain but he stands his ground, biting down on every sound that seeks to leave him after the first that escaped. He doesn’t struggle as his friends rush to wrap his arm tightly, binding it to his side and securing it so it won’t move. 

The pain travels through him in waves, spreading out in scorching, incessant throbs that match his heartbeat. The tears in his eyes are instinctive and humiliating.

Sif is off with a sympathetic pat on the left shoulder and a nod, and Thor redirects his attention to Fandral, trying to focus on him as bright bursts of color obscure his vision every time he blinks.

“Fandral, earlier. Before. What were you saying?”

Fandral averts his eyes and looks at Thor’s forehead. Dread settles like lead in his stomach.

“It’s…” Fandral sighs, seeming to brace for whatever is about to happen after he speaks. “It’s Loki. He’s hurt.”

\---

Time becomes a blur.

Rage unlike any Thor has ever known in his long years takes over, takes control of his mind and his body, threading through his psyche and racing through his blood, obliterating any other desire. Fury is white hot and consuming, the Berserker blood coursing through his heart forcing a calm in the center of the storm he’s become.

On the outside, Thor is unstoppable in his drive for violence, for bloodshed and his need to be the master of a thousand last breaths. Inside, he is serene, settled deep into himself, the scared young boy that lives inside of him hunkered down in the mass of his body like a refuge, waiting it out. He absorbs every blow and turns it into power, and he doesn’t stop until the entire realm of Nornheim is silent, until the movements of their enemies have ceased entirely, and the only heartbeats overwhelming Thor’s ears are Asgardian.

He has killed hundreds today, perhaps more, most of them in the last hour since Fandral said one name and awakened the sleeping beast Thor tries to keep quiet under his skin. He’s exhausted and bleeding, broken in ways that bruise down to the soul, and he’s all but crawling when he finally makes his way to Loki’s side where Sif and several other warriors already are, forming a protective barrier around the one thing Thor loves more than glory, more than battle and the warmth of the sun and his own unfolding legacy.

Loki is pale and still, the glimmer of his witchcraft fallen to a seafoam green that is all but transparent, weak, and it shrouds him like a protective cloak. The dry, powder scent of his brother’s seiðr is achingly familiar and overtakes the blood and viscera that permeates the rest of the battlefield, and Thor is brought back into himself in an instant.

“Loki,” he gasps, falling to his knees at his side, the hammer slipping from his weak handed grasp to hit the earth just as hard as he does. Their friends surround them, obscuring Asgard’s princes at their most vulnerable and giving Thor license to reach for his brother the way he needs to.

Loki is limp but hot to the touch, sweat beading along his hairline and collecting in the hollow of his throat. It’s only when Thor gathers him to his chest with his one good arm that he realizes that Loki is still breathing, ragged and shallow but constant.

“Amora set about healing him as soon as he was wounded,” Sif tells him in the quiet tone of a confidante from where she’s knelt bravely behind Thor. “She has gone ahead to Asgard to prepare the healers for his coming.” 

“Why is he still here?” Thor demands, his right hand stiff and swollen in its tight wrap but he strokes Loki’s hair back as best as he can, his eyes still wild as a barbarian but as dangerous as a king. “He needs to be taken back to Asgard at once!”

“He is spellwoven, Thor,” Sif replies, resting her hand lightly on his broken wrist. “Any rough movements could have broken the spell and worsened his injuries. We must wait until--”

“We are not waiting any longer.”

He looks down at his brother in his arms, and he feels the violent tremor that spreads throughout his body as his eyes film with tears. Loki looks so small and so young, even moreso than when they were children and Loki was even more delicate looking than he is now, as seemingly fragile as a hatchling sparrow with just enough fear in his eyes to make him the object of cruelty. Thor kept by Loki’s side as often as life allowed, but he couldn’t be there all the time. The cruelty inflicted on his little brother was profound, so damaging that Loki has never spoken about it in any sort of detail.

Incongruous as it is, this feels like simply a continuation of those days, like Loki has been singled out and harmed, his beauty mistaken for weakness. Had Thor been there. Had Thor seen who hurt Loki like this, who made his brother who was usually so full of life, glinting with mischief and almost preternatural perception, into the prone, quiet shadow held tight in Thor’s arms.

“Heimdall,” he manages, the word scraping in his throat like a dull blade. “Please.”

\---

A rush of color and starlight and they’re home. Heimdall crowds in uncharacteristically close, his large, ancient hand touching the cap of Loki’s head as golden eyes meet Thor’s tearful ones.

“Hurry,” he says quietly.

The skies of Asgard broke open the second Thor entered the realm. The scent of ozone is thick in the air, and deafening thunder follows lightning so strong it lights up the night sky. Thor raises his shattered arm, neverminding the searing pain that drives a cry out past his lips as Mjolnir lifts him up off the ground and into the air, Loki held close in his one good arm. Rain soaks into the layers of his clothes and into his tired skin, washing away clotted and dried blood and leaving him cold, afraid. Loki doesn’t stir.

Healers surround them the second Thor touches down inside the palace, the rush of feet and hushed whispers echoing louder than the torrential rains beyond. Thor tightens his hold on Loki and walks steadily towards the healing rooms, refusing to unhand his brother, to give anyone access to him until Loki was still, somewhere safe.

“Where is he hurt?” one of them asks, a maiden all but flutter as she rushes along beside him, her cheeks flushed for being so forward with a prince of Asgard. “Is he still bleeding, Your Majesty?”

“I’m…” Thor looks down at Loki again, frowning as he looks him over with none of the expertise of the people guiding them into the large room and to the waiting bed. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t told.”

“We need to see him, darling,” Runa, a woman who has nursed even the most trivial wounds on him and Loki both throughout their long lives, a woman whose voice is like a balm when he hears it, dares Thor’s wrath and reaches in, lighting a cool hand on Loki’s cheek before sliding down to check his pulse on his throat. “You may stay, of course.”

Thor settles on the pristine white bed first and arranges Loki atop him, staining the sheets with mud and muck and blood but he pays it all no mind. He leans back against the headboard and lets out a huff of a sigh as the team of healers descend on Loki, carefully peeling his clothes off and feeling over his lithe body as gently as their urgency allows. A shadow falls over them all, and Thor looks up. His throat goes tight.

“Mother,” he says softly. Tears burn his eyes.

“What happened?” Frigga asks, her hands clasped together in front of her, her hair long and brushed soft, as is her tradition before bed. Her night robes reach the floor and trail along behind her, reminding all who see her that she is exactly the goddess she appears to be.

“I’m n-not sure,” he admits, though it frustrates him to say it. Loki’s head is cradled in his lap on a small white pillow, and he has been freed from his soaking clothes, his long body revealed. Most present do not react, but a few gasps rise up among the young.

Thor chokes on a cry, one that rarely comes from anything not mortally wounded.

The eviseraction was aborted but deep, the cut true enough that Loki well may have died, but it’s jagged and unpracticed, a wound inflicted by a green, cowardly warrior. Magic seals the sprawling gash, but blood bubbles up along the seam low on Loki’s tiny stomach, one that spreads like a quarter moon from the jut of one hipbone to another.

The healers speak in hushed tones among each other, certain words lifting up out of the worried song catch on Thor’s ears and fill out the parts of the story he doesn’t already know. Words like ‘sharpened rock’ and ‘internal organs in his hands’ and ‘pushed back in to stitch him up’, but Thor doesn’t know what to do with this new knowledge.

Tears fall freely from his eyes and splash on Loki’s sallow cheek.

“Mother, help me,” he pleads, too quiet for any mortal to hear.

Frigga cups Thor’s head and he closes his eyes when he feels her lips against his dirty skin, against his soaked, dripping hair, and he leans in to her when she wraps her arms around him and holds him as close and as dear as he’s holding Loki.

“I should have been by his side,” he says brokenly, now rocking back and forth as he cradles Loki to him, deaf to the gentle pleas for Thor to please keep still while they stitch Loki up and clean his wounds. “He should not have been alone.”

“Even if he was the last being in all the nine realms, Loki would never be truly alone. Not with the strength of your love for him.” Frigga strokes Thor’s hair like she used to when he would dream darkly, when he was all but inconsolable and no one could reach him but his mother. “Do not blame yourself for this. It was Loki’s choice to go with you to Nornheim. Loki does what he will and nothing else. You know this.”

“He is mine to protect,” he breathes into the tangled darkness of Loki’s fine hair, his breath hitching as his hurt arm tries in vain to clutch his brother. “How am I to deserve such a right if this is what happened to him when I was so near?”

A golden glow emits from Runa’s hands, gathering into the curved needle she holds and spilling from the miniscule eye of it in a brilliant shimmer of magicked thread. Thor closes his eyes before the needle pierces Loki’s moonlight skin.

“It is a right given to you, my son,” Frigga says in a low, unshakable voice against his ear. “Loki allows your protection and your love. It is not forced upon him. He bathes in it. Thrives in it.”

“Will he forgive me?” He buries his nose in Loki’s hair, the fingers of his left hand lacing with Loki’s and come to rest on Loki’s chest, soaking in the comforting drum of Loki’s heartbeat. 

“There is nothing to forgive, brother.”

The fingers threaded between Thor’s come to life with a weak grip, and Thor sucks in a ragged breath of pure elation at the sound of Loki’s voice, thin and shaky though it is. The whole gathering of healers freezes, including Runa with her needle preparing to exit Loki’s skin, the wound nearly stitched closed now. 

“Continue, Runa,” Frigga says quietly, turning so that her body blocks the sight of the two of them and the way they curl in against each other.

“Be still, little brother,” Thor murmurs against Loki’s cheek, his thumb stroking across his palm, petting his lifeline, willing the broken lines into whole ones. “It is nearly done. We are home. You are safe.”

“Of course I’m safe,” Loki sighs, turning his upper body as much as possible to tuck his face into Thor’s chest, all but snuggling into his arms. “You’re here.”


End file.
